by Eskens,Allen
As I near the northern shore, I stop to listen. If he were still yelling for help, I’d be able to hear that by now. He must have given up. Maybe that thump on the head has him floating in and out of consciousness—or maybe he’s dead. I step over the rocks and head up the hill. I can see his shoulders sticking out on either side of the tree and I can see the belt that holds his neck against the trunk. Branches scrape against my coat as I make my way up toward his position. He hears me and starts to yell.
“Help? Is someone there? Help me! Please, help me! Please—”
When he sees me, his hollering stops and he turns plaintive. “Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand.”
Still breathing hard from my march across the lake, I squat down beside him, close enough that my knee is touching his left shoulder. I look at him for a few seconds while I catch my breath. At first he’s looking directly into my eyes, but then he averts his gaze away from me. He knows me all right.
“What’s my name?” I ask him. I already know he’ll lie, but I want to see how good of a liar he is.
“I don’t know you, Mister. What the hell’s going on? Why are you doing this to me?”
“You don’t know me? Are you sure? Look closely.” I lean in and take off my stocking cap.
“No. I don’t know you. Who are you?”
He’s good. His eyes stop pulling away and he locks his focus on me, even managing to put on a mask of fear and befuddlement as he talks. He wants to play. So let’s play.
“I’m Detective Max Rupert.” I say. “Ring a bell?”
“Detective? You’re a cop?”
I don’t answer.
“Let me go. You can’t do this to me. I didn’t do anything wrong. You have no right.”
“Shut up!” I say through gritted teeth. “I have every right.”
“Whatever you think I did, you’re wrong. I didn’t do anything. You have to believe me.”
“I have to do nothing of the sort.” I lean back and sit in the snow.
“If you’re a cop, show me your badge.”
I say nothing.
“You know that we’re in Canada,” he says. “If you’re really a cop, you have no jurisdiction here. You can’t arrest me. I didn’t do anything, but if I did, you can’t arrest me. We’re not in America anymore.”
He’s right about that, but this stopped being about cops and jurisdiction and courts a long time ago. I lift the rope from under my arm, tie a small loop into one end and pull a length of rope through that loop to make a slip knot.
“What . . . What are you going to do with that?”
“You’re coming with me.”
“The hell I am,” he says.
His tone is getting bolder as he reassesses his circumstances. He must think I’m going to take him back to America and place him under arrest. I stand up, walk around the tree, and tug the belt tight to unbuckle it. He gacks and coughs for effect as I take the belt off his throat, roll it into a coil and put it in my coat pocket.
“I’m not going with you!” he yells. “You’re a man of the law. You can’t do this. You’re insane if you think I’m going to go with you. Cut me loose now and maybe I won’t sue you for breaking my arm.”
I wrap the rope around his neck and pull it tight.
“What the—?”
With the rope in one hand and the ax handle in the other, I begin to drag him down the hill toward the lake. I can hear him choking and making gurgling sounds, but no words can escape past the rope around his throat. It takes me only a minute to get him to the edge of the lake. He’s not heavy, but his shoulders plow up a pile of snow as we go. I know I won’t be able to pull him very far before I fall over from exhaustion. But then again, how long will he be able to go without breathing.
Before stepping onto the ice, I stop and put some slack into the rope. His airway opens and he starts to cough and sputter and gasp for air. His arms are still trussed at his sides and his boots tied together. I think I have a pretty good starting point for negotiations, so I again squat down next to him.
“Like I said, you are coming with me. That is not up for discussion. You can come with me voluntarily or I can drag you. It doesn’t make me a bit of difference. You decide.”
“You think there’s no payback for this?” he says. “I’ll have your badge. I’ll sue your department and you personally. If you don’t let me go right now, I promise you, I’ll see to it that you never work as a cop again.”
“Okay,” I say. “Dragging it is.”
I stand back up and shrug.
“No! No. I’ll walk.”
I start to tug on the rope.
“I said I’ll walk!” And then in words that barely leaked past the slipknot, “For Christ’s sake stop!”
He’s lying on his back and I plop down onto his knees to separate his boots so he can walk. I keep the rope around his neck and lift him to his feet.
“March,” I order.
He seems a bit shaky at first—it’s probably hard to walk through deep snow with your arms bound. Or it could be the crack I put in his skull that’s making him wobbly. He’s not talking, but he gives an occasional grunt to let me know that he’s struggling.
As we trek across the frozen lake, I start to feel a bit shaky myself, and it occurs to me that I haven’t eaten in over twelve hours, nor slept in twenty-four. I should have grabbed a bite when I went back to the cabin to get the rope and auger, but I was concentrating so hard on the task that I overlooked the long game. The physical exertion of tromping back and forth through the snow was already starting to take a toll, and we’re just beginning this crucible.
As we near the middle of the lake, I keep an eye out for the hole where I’d stashed the tarp. When we come to that spot, I give a short yank on the rope and like a well-trained horse, the man comes to a stop. I drop the ax handle and throw my shoulder into his back, sending him toppling face-first into the snow. He curses and screams as I use the rope to tie his feet together. When I am satisfied with the strength of the binding, I roll him over onto his back.
“Have you completely lost your mind?” he yells. “I swear to God, if you don’t let me go right now, I’ll spend the rest of my life making sure that you pay for this!”
“You’ll make me pay for this?” I stand up and use my legs like a snow plow, creating an opening down to the lake’s surface as I talk. “And what will that price be? What could you possibly do to me to make us even? I’d really like to know what you think is fair?”
“What are you doing?” he asks.
I ignore him and keep clearing snow until I have a nest about the size of a tractor tire. Then I find the auger. When I pick it up, I see a spark of recognition in his eyes and behind that, I see what I’m hoping to see—fear.
Chapter 11: Minneapolis—Two Days Ago
Chapter 11
Minneapolis—Two Days Ago
On the drive back to City Hall, I was lost in thought, immersed and weightless in a deep pool of illumination brought to me by Farrah McKinney. On the day she died, Jenni was trying to help a girl named Zoya, a girl of maybe sixteen or seventeen. A girl being trafficked for sex, or so they thought. Jenni was trying to save her life. As I floated in this new information, my squad-car stereo played softly in the background. The whispers of a song broke through to my consciousness and I was pulled out of my trance. The song was Runaway Train, by Soul Asylum. I stopped thinking and turned up the volume, letting the lyrics perforate walls I’d built up over a lifetime of being a cop.
It seems no one can help me now.
I’m in too deep. There’s no way out.
The song melded with my thoughts about a young girl I’d never met, a girl thrown from a motel window, a girl beaten and raped, who needed help. She was here, in my city, alone and scared, and I didn’t protect her—we didn’t protect her. But, Jenni tried. Was that why they killed her?
I parked beside City Hall and cranked the volume up to eleven, my head sinking back into my he
adrest, my eyes closed to the tears that tried to escape. I let the song rip into me, but I felt no absolution. When the song was over, I turned the stereo off and gave myself a moment to ease back into my cop face before texting Niki that I had arrived.
Niki came out through the front door of City Hall, jogged to the end of the block where I parked, and jumped into the passenger side of my car. I drove away, meandering through the empty streets of downtown.
“What’s with the cloak and dagger?” I said
“Lieutenant Briggs is in the office. He’s been hovering around my desk for the past half hour.”
“Maybe he’s finally worked up the courage to ask you out.”
“I’ve got a gun, Max.”
“I mean you’re a young desirable woman—”
“I will shoot you.”
“Sure he’s a bit doughy, but who knows, maybe the third marriage will be the charm.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“I’ve heard rumors.”
“I think he was trying to listen in on my phone calls. He actually came into the cubicle and asked me what I was up to. He leaned against your desk and wanted to chat like we were old friends.”
“He doesn’t work a holiday unless he’s trying to impress someone.”
“Or he thinks there’s an advantage to his game. Think about it, Max.”
“Orton?”
“Deputy Chief of Staff to the Mayor.”
I took a moment to wade into thoughts that I normally ignored—politics—a world where Briggs spent most of his energy.
Niki said, “Remember a few weeks back, the Mayor was pissed off at Chief Murphy? There were all those rumors that the Mayor was looking to replace the Chief? What if those weren’t just rumors. What if there’s a shakeup in the works? Having close ties with the Deputy Chief of Staff might come in handy.”
“I have no doubt that Briggs is here to play his game. We need to keep him out of the loop. I don’t like the idea of our investigation being used as a political football.”
I stopped my aimless weaving through downtown and turned around to head back toward City Hall.
“There’s something else we need to talk about,” Niki said with an air of seriousness that made me uneasy.
“What would that be?”
“Your lunch date. Was she helpful?”
“Helpful? Oh, she’s just an old friend.”
“How long are you going to keep feeding me crap, Max?”
“How long are you going to keep asking questions that you know I’m not going to answer?” I focused on the road hoping the subject might fall away, but knowing it wouldn’t.
“Dammit, Max. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Who is Farrah McKinney?”
“No one.” I started to formulate a plausible lie, as the heat of Niki’s anger and hurt burned against my cheek. I hated lying to her.
“And by no one, do you mean Farrah McKinney is a figment of your imagination, or she’s no one you should be talking to?”
I don’t answer.
“Because when she called to tell you she was running late, I asked her what this was in reference to. Do you know what she told me?”
Crap.
“She told me that you had contacted her about the death of your wife.”
I stopped at a red light and looked out my window so that Niki couldn’t see my face.
“And Ray Kroll, the guy you had on your computer earlier. I’m betting he has nothing to do with this Fireball investigation. I’m betting he’s a name from the past that you shouldn’t be digging up. Tell me I’m wrong.”
I turned to face Niki, but I couldn’t look her in the eye. “You don’t want to know what I’m up to,” I said. “We have the Fireball case to work. Anything beyond that is best left alone. I’m not putting you in the crosshairs. Please—.”
“Crosshairs?” Now she was really angry. “What are you talking about?”
The light changed and I turned onto Third Avenue, pulled up to the curb next to City Hall and parked. “You know what I’m talking about, Niki. Let’s assume I’m doing what you think I’m doing. If I get caught, Briggs will make sure I’m out the door. I’m not taking you down with me. That’s all there is to it.”
“You’re such an idiot,” she said, her indignation flushing red on her face. “For a smart detective, you’re a bastard and an idiot and you’re blind as a . . . as a . . . you can be such an asshole.”
I sat in stunned silence, her words stinging like a slap to my face.
“I’m already on the hook with you,” she said. “I know what you’re doing. I’m not stupid. And because I’m not telling anyone, that puts me on the hook. You’re not protecting me by keeping me out of the loop.”
“You have plausible deniability. You can—”
“I don’t want plausible deniability. I want to help you. I want to find your wife’s killer. I want you . . . I want you to trust me.”
“I do trust you. I—”
“No you don’t. Not really. To you, we’re partners, that’s all—a business relationship. At the end of the day you don’t give me another thought. You have this wall you’ve built, and you won’t let me past.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying . . . I’m saying that I feel like a replacement still. We’ve been together three years and you still don’t trust me—not the way I do you. You say you’re protecting me, but that’s bullshit. You either trust me—all the way—or you don’t. That’s all there is to it.”
While my brain lined up a counter argument, another voice inside of me whispered that she was right. She knew what I was working on. If she helped to cover it up, she’d be in trouble. And for what? Was it fair that I trusted her to keep silent about my investigation, but not to be part of it? I had put her in jeopardy yet kept her in the dark as to why she was making that sacrifice.
“This investigation can never go on the books,” I said.
“I figured as much.”
“I’m serious, this crosses a line. I’m beyond just getting fired. There could be real consequences.”
“Max.” Niki leaned forward so that I could see the seriousness in her soft, dark eyes. “I want to get the prick who murdered your wife. I am in this all the way—neck deep if that’s where it leads. Let me help.”
I leaned back in my seat, hoping to come up with one last way out. Nothing came. “Okay, I said. “I’ll tell you.” I closed my eyes and spoke in a low whisper. “It goes back to the day I killed Ben Pruitt. Boady Sanden and Pruitt were in Sanden’s office. I was standing just outside, separated from them by a pair of French doors, glass doors, so I could see into Boady’s office. Pruitt had a gun in his hand and was pointing it at Boady. I thought Pruitt was going to kill him.”
“I know,” Niki said. “I read the report.”
“But there is something I left out of the report. I busted in to Boady’s office with the idea that I would either arrest Pruitt or shoot him. I had him in my sights and I was yelling for him to drop his gun. But Pruitt didn’t drop the gun, and he didn’t point it at me either. Instead, he brought it up to his own head. He pointed the gun at his temple and pressed his finger against the trigger. I could see the white in his knuckle. He was serious.”
I turned to look at Niki so that I could see her reaction to what I told her next. I said, “That’s when Pruitt told me that he knew who killed Jenni.”
Niki’s eyes tightened as she realigned the chain of events to see it from a new perspective. “But how’d Pruitt know?”
“That’s where Raymond Kroll comes in.”
“The guy you were looking up this morning.”
“Yeah. Boady Sanden showed up on my doorstep yesterday and handed me a file on Kroll. He was Pruitt’s client. When we were in Boady’s office, and Pruitt wanted to bargain with me, he said that if I let him go he’d tell me who killed Jenni. He said if I didn’t agree, he’d kill himself and
I’d never find my wife’s murderer.”
“But you shot him.”
“I didn’t believe him. I didn’t think he’d go through with it, so I told him that he was going to prison. I’d let him think about that bargain from his prison cell. I figured he’d give up Jenni’s killer in exchange for better conditions or maybe a reduction of his sentence. People talk big when they’re bluffing.”
Niki shook her head slowly. “He wasn’t bluffing.”
“No. But he didn’t shoot himself either. He shot at me. He was standing right in front of me and he shot wide. I couldn’t stop myself. I killed him before I realized what had happened.”
“Suicide by cop.”
I nodded. I could see the cogs turning behind Niki’s brow, trying to connect the death of Ben Pruitt to my new investigation. “After Pruitt’s death, Boady Sanden became the executor of Pruitt’s law practice. He was responsible for shutting it down, returning retainer money, closing files, that kind of thing. When he was going through Pruitt’s cases, he came across Ray Kroll’s file. When Boady opened the file, he saw Jenni’s name written inside the cover.”
“Kroll was Pruitt’s source,” Niki said. “That’s how Pruitt knew about Jenni’s death.”
I nodded again. “I think Kroll might have been blackmailing someone. That’s the only reason I can think of why Kroll kept the evidence all these years—as proof of the crime. There was a CD in the file. It was a recording of a telephone conversation. Two men. They were talking about Jenni’s murder. They were planning it.”
Niki mouthed, “Holy shit.”
“I suspect that one of the men on the CD is Kroll. He probably recorded the conversation as insurance. Making sure he didn’t become the fall-guy in Jenni’s murder. Or, maybe he saw this as a way to make some money. I don’t know.”
“Where’s Kroll now?”
“He got into a bar fight not long after Jenni’s death. Charged with first-degree assault. That’s the case Pruitt represented him on. He spent some time in jail, before bailing out. The assault case never went to trial because someone put a bullet in Kroll’s head. They found his body on the bank of the river in St. Paul.”